


keep me going strong

by BrosleCub12



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Anxiety, Chirping, Comfort, Coming Out, Cuddling & Snuggling, Jack singing, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-16
Updated: 2017-10-16
Packaged: 2019-01-18 10:34:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12386409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrosleCub12/pseuds/BrosleCub12
Summary: The morning after Jack's frantic journey to the Haus from the airport.(Post-'Hi Honey' Parts I and II).





	keep me going strong

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, first things first; can I just say I love this fandom. I'm British, I know bugger-all about hockey and yet I've had so many wonderful responses to these little one-shots; over 200 kudos for one story alone! It means so much; thankyou everybody who's read and commented on my work. A lot of my fic in recent years has been rather dry and dusty, written to prove a point more than anything and not altogether enjoyable but writing for this fandom has given me genuine pleasure and renewed some of my confidence. I love Jack and I love Bitty and I love them both together.
> 
> As per, I don't own Check Please. This is unbetaed but meticulously picked through, so all mistakes are mine. Nothing to warn for, save for a few nods to Jack's anxiety and the worrying of both characters as they prepare to come out to the rest of the crew. Also note - for the sake of clarity, I've added a musical link within the text but for some reason, at least from my end, it will redirect you to the Youtube page and thus take you right out of the fic. I'm sorry about that; I'm afraid I don't know how to fix it, so consider yourselves warned!

When Jack wakes up that morning, he’s not in his empty, slightly dusty apartment following a collapse after a hard roadie and he feels secure, _steady,_ in his own skin. All the Falconers had been ordered to go straight home, to get out of the rain and get a good night’s sleep, George’s glint as she glared around at them all steel-like in the dim lights of the plane as they prepared to disembark, almost _daring_ them to defy her. 

Two out of three isn’t bad, Jack decides as he turns onto his side to look at Bits, still sleeping beside him, sharing the pillow and so very here that it hurts. The room is so quiet; the rain has stopped, no more wet rattling on the windows, like ghosts demanding to be let in. A determined glint of sunlight is powering its way through; it looks like it might be a dry day. Jack, feeling utterly relaxed, puts a hand on Bitty’s arm to carefully stroke that soft, familiar skin; feels a pride on some level for coming here – for knowing what’s good for them both, for doing what felt _right_ and waking up to this, the morning after. 

The conversation-almost-argument that they had had over the phone had almost torn him in two: the high ache of Bits’ voice down the night before, _you can’t give up your whole life for me, Jack,_ as though he was willing to drop it all in a moment, drop _them,_ to save Jack’s reputation from further damage. 

It had stunned Jack so much he had almost crashed the car; the knowledge that this secrecy is hurting Bitty, that hockey is once again the complicated, tangling _thing_ at the centre of it all. The quiet, horrified frustration at the fact that this time, it’s infecting Bits as well. 

_It can’t be like Kent,_ he had thought to himself, during his frantic, blurred race to the Haus, almost running traffic-lights in his growing panic. _It can’t be._ Granted, it’s different; Kent has always been like Jack, just as ambitious, just as determined, but admittedly a lot less anxious. Bitty just wants to bake, to be with Jack, to be open and honest and _himself_ with the rest of the team. 

He’s _beautiful_ like that, after all. 

Jack rolls over, checks the clock; it’s only half-eight in the morning and it doesn’t sound as if anybody else is awake, yet. That’s okay. A little more time. Nothing is waiting for them – no classes for Bitty, no training for him, no interruptions. They have a moment. If he shuts his eyes, he can almost pretend that it’s a year ago and he’s still a student himself, still their Captain, a lazy morning in bed soon to be punctured by Beyonce songs being belted out in the shower, Dex and Nursey chirping each other downstairs, Ransom and Holster wrestling and banging in the corridor for no other reason than ‘it’s just as good as coffee, bro.’ 

Of course, a year ago, he didn’t have _this:_ this privilege of waking up beside one Eric Bittle in bed. A year ago, the two of them had only really _just_ become friends.

He lies there and lets himself breathe, taking in Bitty’s face; so relaxed and rested now after gazing up at Jack hours before, his expression so anxious and tearful it made his heart hurt, that passing thought of _this is what you do to people_ drifting through his consciousness like smoke.

He had batted it away, pulled Bitty to him, determined.

Now, with a little sleep, they’ve come through the night in one piece. _Even the darkest night will end and the sun will rise,_ something his mother used to say to him when she visited him in rehab and something inside him feels ready at the thought, the memory of her tenacity, like a personal proclamation. He’s been there; he’s had worse. People in the hockey world, newspapers, fans of his father have already ripped strips out of him: _addict, Lindsay Lohan, bad example on other players, Bob Zimmermann-lite._

… Wouldn’t it make such a nice change just to be known as _Bitty’s boyfriend_ – just to the people who _matter?_ Bitty, who is worth driving through the rain for; Bitty in his arms in soft morning heat, his tears long dried away just as Jack’s suit, hung up on the wardrobe door, has dried up (mostly) from the storm. Bitty, who undressed him with a lot of tutting and telling off, belied only by his tired voice – so exhausted from the past week and oh, how Jack wants to kick himself for ever doing _anything_ that made Bitty feel like that in the past. A bit of hugging, a few kisses against each other’s skin, a reassurance: _we’re a team_ and then they had lain down together, holding one another and murmuring goodnights. 

As though he can feel Jack thinking next to him, Bitty stirs, blinking rapidly and Jack smiles softly, wraps an assuring arm around him. _Hello, again._

‘Hi,’ he murmurs.

‘Hm,’ Bitty finds a smile for him, soft eyes fluttering – eyes that remind Jack of all the rich, delicious varieties of chocolate that his father used to bring back for him from roadies and trips abroad – throwing an arm back around him in turn. 

Everything feels soft and comfortable and safe – although for some reason, Jack’s got Stevie Wonder’s [Superstition](https://youtu.be/tqjOPyM5L0U) going around his head, probably because Tater was listening to it on the flight and Jack could hear it fizzling through the headphones; Tater is frankly one of the most enthusiastic guys he’s ever met and he does nothing by halves. The song always applies to Jack on some level that he’s almost resentful to admit to; takes him back to a childhood of constant neatness and flailing against the wall of his bedroom at night, trying to escape the many constant thoughts in his head _that would not go away,_ no matter how hard he tried, or how hard he trained. 

‘Stay,’ Bits practically demands and Jack laughs, runs a hand up and down his back. 

‘I’m going nowhere, Bits,’ he assures and where else would he rather be? He knows they have things to talk about and decisions to make and a task to complete, a potentially lengthy road ahead of them. Something needs to be done today to help Bits – to soften that look, that cave behind his eyes that Jack saw last night, a pit carved out of sheer exhaustion, of trying to stay on top _all_ of the time. Jack knows it too well and he can’t – he won’t – let Bitty feel it, that pressure building up inside until it bursts into a mess of tear-tracks and lost breath. 

…How Jack’s gone from feeling self-obsessed and utterly selfish, pushing himself and others, pushing Bits, through the day, just to try and rid himself of that dark, unsmiling dog, rattling around his feet, a loud bell on its collar jangling away to remind him that it was there and he couldn’t quite shake it – to now, to someone who won’t even think twice before grabbing hold of that infernal mutt’s collar and yanking it right away from where the confounded thing is sniffing around someone else’s orbit – particularly Bitty’s. 

‘M’glad you’re here,’ Bitty mumbles then, looking perfectly happy and wonderfully calm, running a thumb over his hip and Jack nods, kisses his forehead.

‘So am I,’ he agrees. He closes his eyes over Bitty’s hair and breathes into it. It’s alarming, how like home it feels; like a kindness in the world to return to after spending so long away. It could be akin to returning to your childhood bedroom – except Jack’s old bedroom at his parents’ house, adorned with rosettes and trophies and _reminders,_ has never quite felt like that, not to him; has always made him want to run, to flee, the memory of panic on his tongue, tear-tracks on battered pillows. 

Now, he has somewhere to run _to._ He finds himself humming a little to the lingering drum-beat inside his head and then just for the hell of it, singing it – singing the words of Superstition to Bitty, softly, softly, a kind of comfort and just for the hell of it, all in French. It’s odd, he knows – but it makes Bitty smile, recognising the tune and nuzzling against him as Jack cradles him in his arms, letting his hands soothingly slide up and down in a gentle rhythm, keeping him close. 

_‘Keep me in a daydream,’_ Jack murmurs, letting it ripple, his mother tongue mischievously affectionate, _‘keep me going strong…’_ He knows he can’t be understood – can’t really sing, if he’s honest, not like Bits – but he hopes the meaning is clear enough. Bitty whacks him – a very pathetic thing and they both laugh, before Bitty rubs his face over his shirt.

‘Missed you,’ he murmurs; Jack nods, holding him tight, nested in their comforter and sheets. They’ve earned this, this warm, gorgeous morning in bed.

‘I know. I know, Bits.’ Another few kisses, all over Bitty’s cheeks and nose, all over that lovely, lovely face that Jack saw behind his eyelids and gazed at on his phone, when he was alone in his hotel room. ‘I missed you too. But we’ll get this sorted out, okay? It’s going to be alright.’ Another squeeze, another few kisses against the warmth of Bits’ neck. ‘It’s all going to be fine.’

*

‘How are we going to do this, then?’ Bitty asks a little later, still tucked up under the covers, propped up on an elbow and watching Jack get dressed. 

‘Not sure,’ Jack smiles at him over his shoulder, one hand on his phone as he texts Shitty again; his friend’s responses have been gentle, oddly patient things - _Yeah bro, I can stick around, don’t sweat. S xxx._ Jack feels bad for asking him to stay when he has to get back to Boston, but: this is important and he _really_ doesn’t think he can do this without his best friend there. 

‘Think about it – this’ll be the easy part, telling them.’ He reaches out to grip his hand. ‘One step at a time, eh?’ Fully dressed, he flops back onto the bed, crosses one leg over the other as Bitty silently puts his arm around him for another cuddle – a silence that Jack can’t ignore. 

‘Bits,’ he presses gently. ‘There’s no point worrying or speculating until we actually do it.’ He places his palm on Bitty’s chest, over his heart. He probably has a whole load of these up his sleeve: words of wisdom from his father, from his therapist, even from his fellow rehab patients. He should hate it, but learning to let himself _be_ helped has taken him a long way and it turns out that being alone never really solved anything. ‘And if someone doesn’t like it, well…’ He shrugs. ‘They’re not our friend, eh?’ 

It feels horrible to say, horrible to even contemplate; it’s far more likely to apply to the newer guys than the older ones, as Jack genuinely has faith in Ransom and Holster, in Lardo and Shitty. It would be a terrible shame if eager Dex, or chilled Nursey, or even precious Chowder couldn’t stomach the idea of the two of them together. But it’s _not knowing_ that’s causing the problem, that’s hurting _everything_ that Jack and Bitty have right now. 

There’s only so much a person can take. 

‘Maybe we should just let them come in here right now,’ Bits murmurs finally, as they hear creaking above and around them, the pipes squeaking to life – the Haus is starting to wake up. They both laugh at that, Bitty’s chest humming under Jack’s cheek, a shared awareness of the beautiful, ear-splitting cacophony of noise that could occur if the boys find out that Jack is in the house at all without their knowledge, let alone in this room, in Bitty’s bed.

It could be awkward. It could also be _hilarious._

‘We’d have to stand on each other’s shoulders to peel Ransom and Holster down from the ceiling,’ Jack chirps and he hides his smirk in Bitty’s shoulder, relishing the sound of his giggles. 

‘Oh, poor Chowder might have a heart attack,’ Bitty throws a hand over his eyes, ‘and then he’d probably give everyone else a heart attack with his screaming. I swear Jack, I’ve never met anyone so…’

‘Like you?’ Jack bites his lip, a little cheeky and gets another whack on the shoulder for his trouble. No-one could be as talkative as Bits, but Chowder – ‘darling Chowder,’ as Bitty often describes him on the phone – is a close second and Jack will readily admit always having a soft spot for the kid for simply being himself. He likes to think that such a beautifully oblivious, sweet-hearted guy would have Bitty’s back – as would all of the boys in the Haus, ideally. 

‘Expressive,’ Bitty scolds and ruffles Jack’s hair just a little roughly. ‘You rotten thing.’ 

Jack bursts out laughing all over again and then immediately lowers his voice, perks his ears up cautiously for the potential distant rumbling of old friends who somehow and miraculously recognise his laughter from a mile away and would burst in here to investigate further. Without knocking. And _then_ hit the ceiling. 

‘How do you want to do this?’ he asks, tension successfully broken and determined to treat this seriously; the ball’s in Bitty’s court, after all. Bitty should have final say and Jack wants to him to feel as safe and secure as possible, after a week of rollercoaster emotions and avoidance. They’ve both been lonely. 

‘All at once, I guess,’ Bitty is musing, his cheek resting on Jack’s head, one hand combing through Jack’s hair. ‘Quick and fast – like ripping off a band-aid,’ he adds, with a slightly sheepish chuckle and Jack squeezes his hand reassuringly. ‘And I’d be lying if I said we don’t need food – we’re going to do this properly,’ he declares, all at once quite firm and Jack grins because of course, of course they’d need food when making such an announcement. _There’s_ the Bits he knows and loves. 

‘We don’t need to bribe them,’ he tries to assure, all the same. ‘You don’t need to make them a dozen pies to soften the blow or anything like that – not that there’s anything to soften,’ he adds, hastily, because he believes, down to his bones, that their friends will understand.

_(Like hell,_ he’s prepared to declare, if he’s wrong, if he’s completely misjudged four years of friendship; if this _does_ end up going the other way. _Like hell I’m prepared to give him up)._

‘Nope,’ Bitty replies and it sounds like a proclamation as he sits up in Jack’s arms. ‘But Jack, honey – we _do_ need brunch.’ 

*

**Author's Note:**

> Superstition was one of the songs I was listening to when I wrote this piece, while under a lot of stress and it just... wormed its way in. The lyrics struck a chord with me and I figured they would do so too with Jack, as a fellow anxiety sufferer. Thanks so much for reading. x


End file.
